OBFT XXX!

Despite the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the OBFT XXX t-shirt (and the cheesy aesthetic stylings of the old men in attendance) the thirtieth annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip was a roaring success:

1) record number of guys in attendance . . . in no particular order: Whit, Rob, Cliff, Jason, Marston, Billy, Marlin, Gormley, Charlie, Gus, Swaney, Old, Overton, Joe, Coby, Fischel, Noble, Wainwright, Bruce, Paci, Stew, Hoopie, Ethan, Ian, Rodell, Dave Fairbanks, and me;

2) great weather-- cool and breezy;

3) a new game: Pizzazz . . . I hate the Southern Gentlemen accents;

4) the usual fun and food and Tortuga's;

5) the introduction of "the light bag" in cornhole;

6) no spikeball for Stew;

7) first rainy day in years;

8) Gormley christened the back fo the rental car after a long Wednesday night . . . always a mistake;

9) new stairs and less dune . . . 

10) while we did not fish, we certainly supported the fishing industry by eating a hell of a lot of seafood;

11) a great time, thanks for hosting Whit (and Coby and Charlie for cooking) and now it's time to dry out and get ready for tomorrow's jury duty.

Life with an English Teacher as Your Dad

 

A text thread with my son Ian . . . it's got to be annoying to have an English teacher as a dad.

Ringworld: Get Down with Some 70s Sci-fi

 

New episode of We Defy Augury out . . . thoughts (loosely) based on Larry Niven's 1970s sci-fi classic Ringworld and Katie Williams' brand-spanking new sci-fi novel My Murder . . . Zardoz is one of the many special guests.

New York in the 70s: A Mealier Big Apple

Colson Whitehead resumes the adventures of Ray Carney-- furniture salesman and occasional criminal-- in Crook Manifesto (the sequel to Harlem Shuffle) and you get a wonderfully gritty and graphic view of the Big Apple (and the surrounding areas, even Jersey . . . at one point a vehicle is abandoned on the "raggedy edge" of New Brunswick) in the 1970s . . . all the corruption, revolution, urban renewal, urban decay, cons, grifts, and wild times in a city that is a long way from gentrification-- a city that is literally on fire . . . a joyous cast of characters mixed up in a metropolis on the edge of chaos.

Now the Weather Breaks? Now?

All summer, I sweated it out on the hot and humid Jersey streets and courts, living my runaway American Dream-- and then-- finally-- when the weather breaks and it's clear and cool and smoke-free and sunny and dry, I've got a giant pus-filled boil and I can't play any sports or go swimming . . . not the end of the world, but very annoying.

Taco Tuesday? Fuckin' Fuhgattabout It!

For a moment, I'll refrain from discussing my pus-filled abscess (although, truth be told: it is still festering) and discuss something more palatable: Taco John's has relinquished its trademark on the phrase "Taco Tuesday," thus giving it back to the people (and Taco Bell . . . it wasn't worth fighting them in court) BUT, before you get too fired up, just remember that when you're in the Garden State, if you want to sell a couple of meat-filled tortillas, you won't be afforded the same freedom of fajita as the rest of our nation-- you'll have to bow down to the originator of the phrase "Taco Tuesday," Gregory's Restaurant in Somers Point, New Jersey who apparently coined the phrase in the summer of 1979 and have no plans of releasing it back into the Pine Barrens (or anywhere else).

Yuck

 

I'm back from vacation and my only souvenir is a pus-filled abscess on my chest-- which was probably aggravated by sun, salt, and sea-- so I'm taking a strong antibiotic, applying a heating pad and warm compresses, and praying that I don't get a fever tonight-- because then I've got to go to the hospital.

Last Day Blues

Despite the heat advisory and the wicked ingrown hair on my chest, which has formed a pus filled knot, we had a good last day at the beach: pickleball in the morning, spikeball in the evening, and the surf picked up enough for some boogey boarding after the lifeguards left-- but tomorrow, back to reality (I'm probably going to bed antibiotics for this thing on my chest).

So Much for the Threepeat

It's a bittersweet feeling, to get knocked out of the finals in the double elimination Sea Isle annual cousins Cornhole tourney by both my son's; Alex and cousin Matt defeated Ian and my brother's stepson James in the finals and though I was annoyed that I taught my kids too well it was also fun to watch them square off.

My Future is Wide Open

I've recovered from some kind of mild virus that made my whole body sore, my eyes and head hurt, and messed up my stomach, but luckily it was just a 24 hour bug and I was back at it this morning, playing pickleball with my brother-- he's really good, sort of like playing a spider, it seems like he has extra arms, and while my body recovered from the virus, my right foot is still recuperating and judging by the raw skin between my toes, toe separators are in my future.

The Beach: Last Person Standing Wins

Yesterday, after fighting through some serious Parkway traffic, we got down to Sea Isle, ate lunch at Mike's Dock, unpacked, and headed to the courts the play basketball . . . and despite the height advantage, the old folks (me, my brother, and Nick) beat Alex, Ian, and James . . . then the old folks beat some randoms, then we played fours, then Ian almost puked his hot dog and headed home with James and on the way he crashed on his bike, spraining his ankle and gouging his leg with the big gear ring, so Ian was laid up, meanwhile, I hurt my shoulder in the last game of basketball and I've rubbed the skin raw on the inside of my pinky toe and have to keep an earplug between my toes to prevent bleeding, and Alex has a terrible ingrown nail on his big toe and Marc's knees were too sore from basketball to play pickleball this morning (but I went, despite my shoulder) and Cat managed a four mile beach run despite the neuroma on her foot . . . and that was just day one!

Mike the Mechanic: Hero!

If you're in the vicinity of Highland Park and you need a great mechanic, Mike at Edison Automotive is your guy-- he just resurrected my dilapidated 2008 Toyota Sienna minivan-- which was spewing out error messages like a ninth grader's first Python program-- and not only that, once he replace the fuel pump and put in a new ignition coil cylinder, he had his guy run it over to the inspection station (I failed a few days ago) and it passed!-- and he got this done just in time for us to take the van on vacation-- we were going to have to try to stuff everything into the Mazda, which would have been very tight-- but now to minivan is rolling again (and it seems to have some pick-up and it doesn't veer to the left like it did) for one more beach vacation-- and that inspection sticker is good for two years (and . . . bonus . . . I covered up the cracked sideview mirror with a cut-out adhesive replacement mirror . . . classy).

1215 AD: Terrible Music But Great Charters

In my new episode of We Defy Augury, I take a trip back to 1215 . . . the Year of the Magna Carta; Danny Danziger and John Gillingham help out and guide me, of course, as they are the co-authors of 1215: The Year of Magna Carta . . . and I also take a detour to another fabulous year, 1983 . . . and there are plenty of special guests in this episode as well, including: King Arthur, Denis, The Almighty Lord, Matthew Broderick as David, Al Pacino as Tony Montana, The Choir of Gonville, and Clark Griswold.

Automobiles, Automobiles, and Roller Blades

I had a lovely time rollerblading this morning-- there's some new pavement on 1st Avenue-- although I would not advise coming down the hill on second . . . I ran the stop sign and would have been killed if there were any cars coming, but then the other mode of transportation betrayed me-- it seems my van needs a new fuel pump-- probably cost a grand-- and that's why it won't pass inspection (or accelerate) so we're going to have to be very creative packing for our beach vacation . . . I also went on quite a driving adventure-- because we're down to one car, I had to drive Alex and Ian to work, but first I had to pick up Alex at the Woodbridge Train Station-- he went to the beach to visit his girlfriend, but as I was getting close to the station (with Ian in the car as well) Alex informed us that he missed the train and that he would be coming an hour later-- but at the Perth Amboy Station-- so I drove Ian to the pool so he could start his lifeguard shift, ran to the library, and then I headed to Perth Amboy-- in rush hour-- but then just as I arrived at the Perth Amboy Station, Alex said he got confused and missed that stop (which might have actually been South Amboy) and now he was headed toward Woodbridge again, so I drove there, found him, gave him his wallet back (Cat and I had to drive to the Piscataway Police Station last night because he left it at the bathroom at work and some nice kid turned it in) and took him to work (at the same pool Ian was at) and then headed back to Highland Park-- 2:45 minutes of driving-- and had a snack and then Cat and I got into the car and drove to a wake in South Brunswick and then we headed back to the pool to pick up the kids but Alex said he had a ride home from a friend-- but then that somehow got screwed up-- text misunderstanding-- and once we arrived home, Catherine learned she had to go back out and pick them up . . . quite a tour of Middlesex County during Thursday rush hour.

Old Dogs, New Tricks . . .

A week ago, my wife drove a golf-cart for the first time . . . and at first I was surprised by this, but once I thought about it: she's not a golfer and she never worked on a  golf course (and she's not retired and living in Florida) and so she never had any reason to drive one . . . on a similar note, this morning I did my first solo trip into the maw of an automatic car wash-- my wife was surprised at this but I was like: "when have I ever wanted a clean car?"-- but apparently if you go to the Glow Express before 10 AM, a basic wash is only seven bucks and the vacuums are free-- and my van really really needed to be vacuumed-- it was so full of sticks and leaves and wrappers and dirt and sand and mouldering substances that it actually might have been unhealthy to sit inside this vehicle with the windows up-- so now the car is clean and relatively debris free, but it's still got a "failed" inspection sticker on it-- and this isn't why I thought it would fail-- the shattered side view mirror-- it's because of the check engine light (which you can see in the car wash photo) which has been on for years (along with lots of other lights) and it seems that they care about this one at the DMV so my mechanic is going to try to fix the problem tomorrow-- we tried the reset and drive for fifty miles plan but that didn't work-- so cross your fingers for my van . . . it's got 172,000 miles on it and I'd like to make it to 300k . . . I want my next car to fly.

Do Germans Make Sitcoms?

The German sci-fi TV series Dark lives up to it's billing-- every house, building, path, and road in the fictitious forest town of Winden is baleful and menacing; it's almost always raining (which has got to be difficult to film) and each and every character has something sinister in their past . . . it's like a bizarro version of Stranger Things where all the adults are adulterous and damaged and sketchy and the children have internalized this trauma from the previous generation-- Stranger Things is about kids going on adventures independent of adults, Dark is about kids and adults intertwined in some sort of time-traveling madness-- and while Catherine and I love the show (so far . . . we're almost done with Season 1 and it's supposed to get even better) sometimes we have to laugh at how dire every scene, person, and scenario becomes-- and I feel like I need to watch a German sitcom once we are finished with this: there are German sitcoms, right?

Ball DOES Lie (and Scalding Water Often Burns the Innocent)

I finally finished 1215: The Year of Magna Carta by Danny Danziger and John Gillingham . . . it took me quite a while because much of the book is dense and boring-- but there's enough interesting stuff about all King John's various fuck-ups that forced him to sign the Magna Carta to appease a bunch of rebellious barons and enough about the daily life and times of people of that day and age which will still resonate-- and the Magna Carta, despite falling out of favor fairly quickly, became a very important historical document which had great influence on the political landscape hundreds of years later . . . I'll try to give the book some justice in an episode of We Defy Augury and one parallel between 1215 and today I'd like to flesh out is the connection between the medieval trial by ordeal (when you burn yourself with water or iron and then if it heals very quickly, God has shown that you are innocent) and trial by battle (used when there was a crime in the absence of witnesses or a confession-- and you could choose a champion to fight for your innocence) and the idea of "ball don't lie" in pick-up basketball-- when there is a disputed call and you choose a champion to "shoot for it" and take a three-pointer to determine who gets the call . . . this modern sporting method of determining the outcome makes about as much sense as relying on God to protect the innocent from burning iron, but it is quick and effective-- much faster than what the Magna Carta promises-- trial by jury, which might be more fair but is a time-consuming pain-in-the-ass . . . and the same in pick-up basketball-- if disputed calls were actually sorted out by all those involved (and bystanders) the game would be interminably slow . . . so the use of medieval logic speeds things along-- the origin of the phrase (according to the internet) is that Rasheed Wallace would yell this after he was called for a foul, while the fouled the player taking the foul shots-- and if the player missed, then Wallace did NOT actually commit a foul-- and this is some insane reverse-cause-and-effect and the ball lies all the time-- it bounces and caroms and deflects and players miss free-throws because they've just gotten hammered, because they lose concentration, or because they are bad at free throws-- despite being fouled all the time (Shaq!) and so while we might know the logical way to figure something out, the medieval way is often more satisfying.

Is this the End of an Era?

Due to the epic Wimbledon Men's Final ( 5 sets, 4 hours 42 minutes, Alcaraz beats Djokovich) I thought I'd be unable to write a sentence today-- watching that match really took it out of me (reminds me of this match) but I was so inspired by the fact that Djokovich and Alcaraz managed to string together multiple sentences-- in English-- which is neither player's first language-- after a match of that length and magnitude that I figured I could at least pump out one sentence, a little something for their effort-- and it was one of the best tennis matches I've ever seen . . . Djokovich had just enough trouble with his backhand (and attempted too many shots down the line with it, over the high part of the net) and Alcaraz got to EVERYTHING and really came up big with his serve (and he is incredibly agile and has great touch at the net and when he's chipping drop shots just over the net) and it's definitely a little sad that we may have come to the end of the Djokovich/Federer/Nadal era . . . when do you have three Michael Jordans all playing at the same time?

Bubble Bubble, The Irish Troubles

A new episode of my podcast is up and streaming-- "Bubble, Bubble, The Irish Troubles" . . . this one is inspired by Stuart Neville's thriller The Ghosts of Belfast and it is a major improvement from my last effort, which was a rambling and convoluted attempt to cover far too large a topic-- this episode has an eclectic crew of special guests to boot, including: The Hasbro Pop-O-Matic, Detective Sean Duffy, Adrian McKinty, Sinead O'Connor, Indiana Jones, Erin Quinn, Grandpa Joe, The People's Front of Judea, and U2.

New (To Me) Music

I swore I'd never read another fantasy book and then my friend convinced to give Game of Thrones a shot and I ended up reading them all . . . and I swore I'd never listen to heavy metal music again but Rob Harvilla, on his podcast 60 Songs That Explain the '90s, convinced me to give Tool another listen (I vaguely remember listening to them in the '90s, along with Helmet and Ministry and Pantera) and they are just the right amount of heavy, just the right amount of Spinal Tap, and just the right amount of alternative weirdness for me to enjoy them now, at age 53 . . . weird (I'm also enjoying Waxahtachee very much . . . again-- old news, but I have trouble keeping up with this rapid paced digitally demanding popular culture smorgasbord that comprises our modern lives).